Poems (Cook)/A Love-Song

by Eliza Cook

A LOVE-SONG.

Dear Kate—I do not swear and rave
 Or sigh sweet things as many can;
But though my lip ne'er plays the slave,
 My heart will not disgrace the man.
I prize thee—aye, my bonnie Kate,
 So firmly fond this breast can be;
That I would brook the sternest fate
 If it but left me health and thee.

I do not promise that our life
 Shall know no shade on heart or brow;
For human lot and mortal strife
 Would mock the falsehood of such vow.
But when the clouds of pain and care
 Shall teach us we are not divine;
My deepest sorrows thou shalt share,
 And I will strive to lighten thine.

We love each other, yet perchance
 The murmurs of dissent may rise;
Fierce words may chase the tender glance,
 And angry flashes light our eyes:
But we must learn to check the frown,
 To reason rather than to blame;
The wisest have their faults to own,
 And you and I, girl, have the same.

You must not like me less, my Kate,
 For such an honest strain as this;
I love thee dearly, but I hate
 The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss."
There's truth in all I've said or sung;
 I woo thee as a man should woo;
And though I lack a honey'd tongue,
 Thou'lt never find a breast more true.